What They Never Knew
by itrymybest
Summary: The aftermath of Logan's death.


**The last week wasn't very good, so I just threw together this angst on a whim. It's really feckless of me, though, to be posting this when I have a test tomorrow. Eh.**

He couldn't take one more day full of friends stopping by to offer their condolences. With flowers, bracelets, cards, fucking _everything_ being mailed in by the truckload. Kendall silently accepted them, offering a plastered smile in as a thank you, biting back thoughts of how all of this was pointless, none of it would bring Logan back.

He stalked around the room, breathing heavily as he turned the lights off and opened the windows wide. The way Logan had always set up the room before bed.

Most of Logan's clothes and possessions were sent back to his blood family, after all, who was Kendall to Logan in their eyes? His best friend? An affectionate coworker? Kendall scoffed at the thought. He felt like climbing up to his roof, screaming that yes, fucking yes, Logan is-_was_ his partner, that they were in love, that it wasn't fucking fair that he didn't get to make a single decision in the funeral because he was no one.

The most entertaining - it would have been, had this not be such a solemn and downright shitty happening - thing of all was the way everyone tiptoed around Kendall. As if they were sucking on their popcorn as they crawled into the movie theatre, as if this was a fucking show, waiting for Kendall to break down. Watching until Kendall went absolutely batshit nuts. But he'd be damned if he ever would. Christ, Logan would've made fun of Kendall if he even dared to slip a tear.

The loud paging buzz of the phone rang through Kendall's thoughts, to be met with him whipping around from his spot, and throwing a grey boot at the handset, screaming curses and profanities until he was reduced to nothing but mindless babbles.

Kendall thought he might throw up if he heard one more "I'm sorry man, how are you doing?" They didn't really know. They didn't really _get it_. Their apologies were bullshit, none of them fucking knew what the hell had gone on behind closed doors. They didn't know about the shared kisses, about the hand holding, about the shared smiles and quiet jokes, the adventures, the late-night talks, the nightmares they'd calmed each other through, the way they breathed each other's air, the way their legs tangled at all hours into the night. And they wouldn't know the feeling of the cold bed next to Kendall, the sheets that were just too big for only himself, the breakfasts he now had to eat alone, the empty hangers staring, mocking, him from their room.

He wanted nothing more than to be there, in Texas, Presley's hand gripped in his as he reassured her, but mostly himself, that they'd be okay. That Logan would want them to be fucking okay.

And then Kendall realised he wouldn't get to pick out the suit Logan was buried in.

He marched up to the wardrobe, thumbing through the cloth left behind, knowing exactly and clearly that Logan would want his slim-fit, stark black suit with a bowtie, boots, and a blue flower pinned to his pocket. Logan would want to go out in a beautiful, elegant, fun, bang. But Kendall didn't get to pick. He had no right to pick, remember?

_He was drugged, and hit with a club. He died from a lack of blood. We suspect he was in that state for 3-4 hours. We're very sorry for you loss._

At least the doctors didn't try to cover anything up. They didn't sugar coat it. Logan had a slow, painful death. Alone. With the last words Kendall said to him being, "don't forget the milk."

Don't forget the milk.

Logan would remember him by _don't forget the milk._

And when Kendall had broken three traffic lights to get to the hospital, fingers gripping the wheel, knuckles pale white to match his face, he wasn't allowed in the emergency waiting room. He wasn't _family_. So he drove back, twice the speed, throwing apart the kitchen drawer to find the papers that said he was allowed to wait with Logan. Because Kendall sure as hell wasn't waiting for Logan. With Logan. Because Logan was fine. Fucking fine.

When the _family_ arrived, they cried quietly as the white sheet was drawn in what Kendall thought was an overly dramatic thing to do when there were people falling apart. But he didn't say anything. He didn't move anywhere. He sat, frozen, as his lover was obsessed over. In a way Logan wouldn't at all want.

And then a final realisation dawned on him as he sat on the bed, fingers running over the empty pillow. Kendall laughed. In a sadistic way. In a hysterical way.

Logan wouldn't be buried with his ring.


End file.
